Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson

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groped about in the darkness. "I have missed some-thing. I have missed something Kate Swift was try-ing to tell me," he muttered sleepily. Then he sleptand in all Winesburg he was the last soul on thatwinter night to go to sleep.

LONELINESS

HE WAS THE son of Mrs. Al Robinson who onceowned a farm on a side road leading off TrunionPike, east of Winesburg and two miles beyond thetown limits. The farmhouse was painted brown andthe blinds to all of the windows facing the road werekept closed. In the road before the house a flock ofchickens, accompanied by two guinea hens, lay inthe deep dust. Enoch lived in the house with hismother in those days and when he was a young boywent to school at the Winesburg High School. Oldcitizens remembered him as a quiet, smiling youthinclined to silence. He walked in the middle of theroad when he came into town and sometimes reada book. Drivers of teams had to shout and swear tomake him realize where he was so that he wouldturn out of the beaten track and let them pass.

When he was twenty-one years old Enoch wentto New York City and was a city man for fifteenyears. He studied French and went to an art school,hoping to develop a faculty he had for drawing. Inhis own mind he planned to go to Paris and to finishhis art education among the masters there, but thatnever turned out.

Nothing ever turned out for Enoch Robinson. Hecould draw well enough and he had many odd deli-cate thoughts hidden away in his brain that mighthave expressed themselves through the brush of apainter, but he was always a child and that was ahandicap to his worldly development. He nevergrew up and of course he couldn't understand peo-ple and he couldn't make people understand him.The child in him kept bumping against things,against actualities like money and sex and opinions.Once he was hit by a street car and thrown againstan iron post. That made him lame. It was one of themany things that kept things from turning out forEnoch Robinson

In New York City, when he first went there to liveand before he became confused and disconcerted bythe facts of life, Enoch went about a good deal withyoung men. He got into a group of other youngartists, both men and women, and in the eveningsthey sometimes came to visit him in his room. Oncehe got drunk and was taken to a police stationwhere a police magistrate frightened him horribly,and once he tried to have an affair with a womanof the town met on the sidewalk before his lodginghouse. The woman and Enoch walked togetherthree blocks and then the young man grew afraidand ran away. The woman had been drinking andthe incident amused her. She leaned against the wallof a building and laughed so heartily that anotherman stopped and laughed with her. The two wentaway together, still laughing, and Enoch crept off tohis room trembling and vexed.

The room in which young Robinson lived in NewYork faced Washington Square and was long andnarrow like a hallway. It is important to get thatfixed in your mind. The story of Enoch is in fact thestory of a room almost more than it is the story ofa man.

And so into the room in the evening came youngEnoch's friends. There was nothing particularlystriking about them except that they were artists ofthe kind that talk. Everyone knows of the talkingartists. Throughout all of the known history of theworld they have gathered in rooms and talked. Theytalk of art and are passionately, almost feverishly,in earnest about it. They think it matters much morethan it does.

And so these people gathered and smoked ciga-rettes and talked and Enoch Robinson, the boy fromthe farm near Winesburg, was there. He stayed ina corner and for the most part said nothing. Howhis big blue childlike eyes stared about! On the wallswere pictures he had made, crude things, half fin-ished. His friends talked of these. Leaning back intheir chairs, they talked and talked with their headsrocking from side to side. Words were said aboutline and values and composition, lots of words, suchas are always being said.

Enoch wanted to talk too but he didn't know how.He was too excited to talk coherently. When he triedhe sputtered and stammered and his voice soundedstrange and squeaky to him. That made him stoptalking. He knew what he wanted to say, but heknew also that he could never by any possibilitysay it. When a picture he had painted was underdiscussion, he wanted to burst out with somethinglike this: "You don't get the point," he wanted toexplain; "the picture you see doesn't consist of thethings you see and say words about. There is some-thing else, something you don't see at all, somethingyou aren't intended to see. Look at this one overhere, by the door here, where the light from thewindow falls on it. The dark spot by the road thatyou might not notice at all is, you see, the beginningof everything. There is a clump of elders there suchas used to grow beside the road before our houseback in Winesburg, Ohio, and in among the eldersthere is something hidden. It is a woman, that'swhat it is. She has been thrown from a horse andthe horse has run away out of sight. Do you not seehow the old man who drives a cart looks anxiouslyabout? That is Thad Grayback who has a farm upthe road. He is taking corn to Winesburg to beground into meal at Comstock's mill. He knowsthere is something in the elders, something hiddenaway, and yet he doesn't quite know.

"It's a woman you see, that's what it is! It's awoman and, oh, she is lovely! She is hurt and issuffering but she makes no sound. Don't you seehow it is? She lies quite still, white and still, andthe beauty comes out from her and spreads overeverything. It is in the sky back there and all aroundeverywhere. I didn't try to paint the woman, ofcourse. She is too beautiful to be painted. How dullto talk of composition and such things! Why do younot look at the sky and then run away as I usedto do when I was a boy back there in Winesburg,Ohio?"

That is the kind of thing young Enoch Robinsontrembled to say to the guests who came into hisroom when he was a young fellow in New YorkCity, but he always ended by saying nothing. Thenhe began to doubt his own mind. He was afraidthe things he felt were not getting expressed in thepictures he painted. In a half indignant mood hestopped inviting people into his room and presentlygot into the habit of locking the door. He began tothink that enough people had visited him, that hedid not need people any more. With quick imagina-tion he began to invent his own people to whom hecould really talk and to whom he explained thethings he had been unable to explain to living peo-ple. His room began to be inhabited by the spiritsof men and women among whom he went, in histurn saying words. It was as though everyone EnochRobinson had ever seen had left with him some es-sence of himself, something he could mould andchange to suit his own fancy, something that under-stood all about such things as the wounded womanbehind the elders in the pictures.

The mild, blue-eyed young Ohio boy was a com-plete egotist, as all children are egotists. He did notwant friends for the quite simple reason that nochild wants friends. He wanted most of all the peo-ple of his own mind, people with whom he couldreally talk, people he could harangue and scold bythe hour, servants, you see, to his fancy. Amongthese people he was always self-confident and bold.They might talk, to be sure, and even have opinionsof their own, but always he talked last and best. Hewas like a writer busy among the figures of hisbrain, a kind of tiny blue-eyed king he was, in a six-dollar room facing Washington Square in the city ofNew York.

Then Enoch Robinson got married. He began toget lonely and to want to touch actual flesh-and-bone people with his hands. Days passed when hisroom seemed empty. Lust visited his body and de-sire grew in his mind. At night strange fevers, burn-ing within, kept him awake. He married a girl whosat in a chair next to his own in the art school andwent to live in an apartment house in Brooklyn. Twochildren were born to the woman he married, andEnoch got a job in a place where illustrations aremade for advertisements.

That began another phase of Enoch's life. Hebegan to play at a new game. For a while he wasvery proud of himself in the role of producing citi-zen of the world. He dismissed the essence of thingsand played with realities. In the fall he voted at anelection and he had a newspaper thrown on hisporch each morning. When in the evening he camehome from work he got off a streetcar and walkedsedately along behind some business man, strivingto look very substantial and important. As a payerof taxes he thought he should post himself on howthings are run. "I'm getting to be of some moment,a real part of things, of the state and the city andall that," he told himself with an amusing miniatureair of dignity. Once, coming home from Philadel-phia, he had a discussion with a man met on a train.Enoch talked about the advisability of the govern-ment's owning and operating the railroads and theman gave him a cigar. It was Enoch's notion thatsuch a move on the part of the government wouldbe a good thing, and he grew quite excited as hetalked. Later he remembered his own words withpleasure. "I gave him something to think about, thatfellow," he muttered to himself as he climbed thestairs to his Brooklyn apartment.

To be sure, Enoch's marriage did not turn out. Hehimself brought it to an end. He began to feelchoked and walled in by the life in the apartment,and to feel toward his wife and even toward hischildren as he had felt concerning the friends whoonce came to visit him. He began to tell little liesabout business engagements that would give himfreedom to walk alone in the street at night and, thechance offering, he secretly re-rented the room fac-ing Washington Square. Then Mrs. Al Robinsondied on the farm near Winesburg, and he got eightthousand dollars from the bank that acted as trusteeof her estate. That took Enoch out of the world ofmen altogether. He gave the money to his wife andtold her he could not live in the apartment anymore. She cried and was angry and threatened, buthe only stared at her and went his own way. Inreality the wife did not care much. She thoughtEnoch slightly insane and was a little afraid of him.When it was quite sure that he would never comeback, she took the two children and went to a villagein Connecticut where she had lived as a girl. In theend she married a man who bought and sold realestate and was contented enough.

And so Enoch Robinson stayed in the New Yorkroom among the people of his fancy, playing withthem, talking to them, happy as a child is happy.They were an odd lot, Enoch's people. They weremade, I suppose, out of real people he had seen andwho had for some obscure reason made an appealto him. There was a woman with a sword in herhand, an old man with a long white beard who wentabout followed by a dog, a young girl whose stock-ings were always coming down and hanging overher shoe tops. There must have been two dozen ofthe shadow people, invented by the child-mind ofEnoch Robinson, who lived in the room with him.

And Enoch was happy. Into the room he wentand locked the door. With an absurd air of impor-tance he talked aloud, giving instructions, makingcomments on life. He was happy and satisfied to goon making his living in the advertising place untilsomething happened. Of course something did hap-pen. That is why he went back to live in Winesburgand why we know about him. The thing that hap-pened was a woman. It would be that way. He wastoo happy. Something had to come into his world.Something had to drive him out of the New Yorkroom to live out his life an obscure, jerky little fig-ure, bobbing up and down on the streets of an Ohiotown at evening when the sun was going down be-hind the roof of Wesley Moyer's livery barn.

About the thing that happened. Enoch told GeorgeWillard about it one night. He wanted to talk tosomeone, and he chose the young newspaper re-porter because the two happened to be thrown to-gether at a time when the younger man was in amood to understand.

Youthful sadness, young man's sadness, the sad-ness of a growing boy in a village at the year's end,opened the lips of the old man. The sadness was inthe heart of George Willard and was without mean-ing, but it appealed to Enoch Robinson.

It rained on the evening when the two met andtalked, a drizzly wet October rain. The fruition ofthe year had come and the night should have beenfine with a moon in the sky and the crisp sharppromise of frost in the air, but it wasn't that way.It rained and little puddles of water shone under thestreet lamps on Main Street. In the woods in thedarkness beyond the Fair Ground water drippedfrom the black trees. Beneath the trees wet leaveswere pasted against tree roots that protruded fromthe ground. In gardens back of houses in Winesburgdry shriveled potato vines lay sprawling on theground. Men who had finished the evening mealand who had planned to go uptown to talk the eve-ning away with other men at the back of some storechanged their minds. George Willard tramped aboutin the rain and was glad that it rained. He felt thatway. He was like Enoch Robinson on the eveningswhen the old man came down out of his room andwandered alone in the streets. He was like that onlythat George Willard had become a tall young manand did not think it manly to weep and carry on.For a month his mother had been very ill and thathad something to do with his sadness, but notmuch. He thought about himself and to the youngthat always brings sadness.

Enoch Robinson and George Willard met beneatha wooden awning that extended out over the side-walk before Voight's wagon shop on Maumee Streetjust off the main street of Winesburg. They wenttogether from there through the rain-washed streetsto the older man's room on the third floor of theHeffner Block. The young reporter went willinglyenough. Enoch Robinson asked him to go after thetwo had talked for ten minutes. The boy was a littleafraid but had never been more curious in his life.A hundred times he had heard the old man spokenof as a little off his head and he thought himselfrather brave and manly to go at all. From the verybeginning, in the street in the rain, the old mantalked in a queer way, trying to tell the story of theroom in Washington Square and of his life in theroom. "You'll understand if you try hard enough,"he said conclusively. "I have looked at you whenyou went past me on the street and I think you canunderstand. It isn't hard. All you have to do is tobelieve what I say, just listen and believe, that's allthere is to it."

It was past eleven o'clock that evening when oldEnoch, talking to George Willard in the room in theHeffner Block, came to the vital thing, the story ofthe woman and of what drove him out of the cityto live out his life alone and defeated in Winesburg.He sat on a cot by the window with his head in hishand and George Willard was in a chair by a table.A kerosene lamp sat on the table and the room,although almost bare of furniture, was scrupulouslyclean. As the man talked George Willard began tofeel that he would like to get out of the chair andsit on the cot also. He wanted to put his arms aboutthe little old man. In the half darkness the mantalked and the boy listened, filled with sadness.

"She got to coming in there after there hadn'tbeen anyone in the room for years," said EnochRobinson. "She saw me in the hallway of the houseand we got acquainted. I don't know just what shedid in her own room. I never went there. I thinkshe was a musician and played a violin. Every nowand then she came and knocked at the door and Iopened it. In she came and sat down beside me, justsat and looked about and said nothing. Anyway, shesaid nothing that mattered."

The old man arose from the cot and moved aboutthe room. The overcoat he wore was wet from therain and drops of water kept falling with a softthump on the floor. When he again sat upon the cotGeorge Willard got out of the chair and sat besidehim.

"I had a feeling about her. She sat there in theroom with me and she was too big for the room. Ifelt that she was driving everything else away. Wejust talked of little things, but I couldn't sit still. Iwanted to touch her with my fingers and to kissher. Her hands were so strong and her face was sogood and she looked at me all the time."

The trembling voice of the old man became silentand his body shook as from a chill. "I was afraid,"he whispered. "I was terribly afraid. I didn't wantto let her come in when she knocked at the doorbut I couldn't sit still. 'No, no,' I said to myself, butI got up and opened the door just the same. Shewas so grown up, you see. She was a woman. Ithought she would be bigger than I was there inthat room."

Enoch Robinson stared at George Willard, hischildlike blue eyes shining in the lamplight. Againhe shivered. "I wanted her and all the time I didn'twant her," he explained. "Then I began to tell herabout my people, about everything that meant any-thing to me. I tried to keep quiet, to keep myself tomyself, but I couldn't. I felt just as I did about open-ing the door. Sometimes I ached to have her goaway and never come back any more."

The old man sprang to his feet and his voiceshook with excitement. "One night something hap-pened. I became mad to make her understand meand to know what a big thing I was in that room. Iwanted her to see how important I was. I told herover and over. When she tried to go away, I ranand locked the door. I followed her about. I talkedand talked and then all of a sudden things went tosmash. A look came into her eyes and I knew shedid understand. Maybe she had understood all thetime. I was furious. I couldn't stand it. I wanted herto understand but, don't you see, I couldn't let herunderstand. I felt that then she would know every-thing, that I would be submerged, drowned out,you see. That's how it is. I don't know why."

The old man dropped into a chair by the lampand the boy listened, filled with awe. "Go away,boy," said the man. "Don't stay here with me anymore. I thought it might be a good thing to tell youbut it isn't. I don't want to talk any more. Go away."

George Willard shook his head and a note of com-mand came into his voice. "Don't stop now. Tellme the rest of it," he commanded sharply. "Whathappened? Tell me the rest of the story."

Enoch Robinson sprang to his feet and ran to thewindow that looked down into the deserted mainstreet of Winesburg. George Willard followed. Bythe window the two stood, the tall awkward boy-man and the little wrinkled man-boy. The childish,eager voice carried forward the tale. "I swore ather," he explained. "I said vile words. I ordered herto go away and not to come back. Oh, I said terriblethings. At first she pretended not to understand butI kept at it. I screamed and stamped on the floor. Imade the house ring with my curses. I didn't wantever to see her again and I knew, after some of thethings I said, that I never would see her again."

The old man's voice broke and he shook his head."Things went to smash," he said quietly and sadly."Out she went through the door and all the lifethere had been in the room followed her out. Shetook all of my people away. They all went outthrough the door after her. That's the way it was."

George Willard turned and went out of EnochRobinson's room. In the darkness by the window,as he went through the door, he could hear the thinold voice whimpering and complaining. "I'm alone,all alone here," said the voice. "It was warm andfriendly in my room but now I'm all alone."

AN AWAKENING

BELLE CARPENTER had a dark skin, grey eyes, andthick lips. She was tall and strong. When blackthoughts visited her she grew angry and wished shewere a man and could fight someone with her fists.She worked in the millinery shop kept by Mrs. KateMcHugh and during the day sat trimming hats by awindow at the rear of the store. She was the daugh-ter of Henry Carpenter, bookkeeper in the First Na-tional Bank of Winesburg, and lived with him in agloomy old house far out at the end of BuckeyeStreet. The house was surrounded by pine trees andthere was no grass beneath the trees. A rusty tineaves-trough had slipped from its fastenings at theback of the house and when the wind blew it beatagainst the roof of a small shed, making a dismaldrumming noise that sometimes persisted all throughthe night.

When she was a young girl Henry Carpentermade life almost unbearable for Belle, but as sheemerged from girlhood into womanhood he lost hispower over her. The bookkeeper's life was made upof innumerable little pettinesses. When he went tothe bank in the morning he stepped into a closetand put on a black alpaca coat that had becomeshabby with age. At night when he returned to hishome he donned another black alpaca coat. Everyevening he pressed the clothes worn in the streets.He had invented an arrangement of boards for thepurpose. The trousers to his street suit were placedbetween the boards and the boards were clampedtogether with heavy screws. In the morning hewiped the boards with a damp cloth and stood themupright behind the dining room door. If they weremoved during the day he was speechless with angerand did not recover his equilibrium for a week.

The bank cashier was a little bully and was afraidof his daughter. She, he realized, knew the story ofhis brutal treatment of her mother and hated himfor it. One day she went home at noon and carrieda handful of soft mud, taken from the road, into thehouse. With the mud she smeared the face of theboards used for the pressing of trousers and thenwent back to her work feeling relieved and happy.

Belle Carpenter occasionally walked out in theevening with George Willard. Secretly she loved an-other man, but her love affair, about which no oneknew, caused her much anxiety. She was in lovewith Ed Handby, bartender in Ed Griffith's Saloon,and went about with the young reporter as a kindof relief to her feelings. She did not think that herstation in life would permit her to be seen in thecompany of the bartender and walked about underthe trees with George Willard and let him kiss herto relieve a longing that was very insistent in hernature. She felt that she could keep the youngerman within bounds. About Ed Handby she wassomewhat uncertain.

Handby, the bartender, was a tall, broad-shoulderedman of thirty who lived in a room upstairs aboveGriffith's saloon. His fists were large and his eyesunusually small, but his voice, as though striving toconceal the power back of his fists, was soft andquiet.

At twenty-five the bartender had inherited a largefarm from an uncle in Indiana. When sold, the farmbrought in eight thousand dollars, which Ed spentin six months. Going to Sandusky, on Lake Erie,he began an orgy of dissipation, the story of whichafterward filled his home town with awe. Here andthere he went throwing the money about, drivingcarriages through the streets, giving wine parties tocrowds of men and women, playing cards for highstakes and keeping mistresses whose wardrobes costhim hundreds of dollars. One night at a resort calledCedar Point, he got into a fight and ran amuck likea wild thing. With his fist he broke a large mirrorin the wash room of a hotel and later went aboutsmashing windows and breaking chairs in dancehalls for the joy of hearing the glass rattle on thefloor and seeing the terror in the eyes of clerks whohad come from Sandusky to spend the evening atthe resort with their sweethearts.

The affair between Ed Handby and Belle Carpen-ter on the surface amounted to nothing. He had suc-ceeded in spending but one evening in her company.On that evening he hired a horse and buggy at Wes-ley Moyer's livery barn and took her for a drive.The conviction that she was the woman his naturedemanded and that he must get her settled uponhim and he told her of his desires. The bartenderwas ready to marry and to begin trying to earnmoney for the support of his wife, but so simplewas his nature that he found it difficult to explainhis intentions. His body ached with physical longingand with his body he expressed himself. Taking themilliner into his arms and holding her tightly inspite of her struggles, he kissed her until she becamehelpless. Then he brought her back to town and lether out of the buggy. "When I get hold of you againI'll not let you go. You can't play with me," he de-clared as he turned to drive away. Then, jumpingout of the buggy, he gripped her shoulders with hisstrong hands. "I'll keep you for good the next time,"he said. "You might as well make up your mind tothat. It's you and me for it and I'm going to haveyou before I get through."

One night in January when there was a new moonGeorge Willard, who was in Ed Handby's mind theonly obstacle to his getting Belle Carpenter, went fora walk. Early that evening George went into RansomSurbeck's pool room with Seth Richmond and ArtWilson, son of the town butcher. Seth Richmondstood with his back against the wall and remainedsilent, but George Willard talked. The pool roomwas filled with Winesburg boys and they talked ofwomen. The young reporter got into that vein. Hesaid that women should look out for themselves,that the fellow who went out with a girl was notresponsible for what happened. As he talked helooked about, eager for attention. He held the floorfor five minutes and then Art Wilson began to talk.Art was learning the barber's trade in Cal Prouse'sshop and already began to consider himself an au-thority in such matters as baseball, horse racing,drinking, and going about with women. He beganto tell of a night when he with two men from Wines-burg went into a house of prostitution at the countyseat. The butcher's son held a cigar in the side ofhis mouth and as he talked spat on the floor. "Thewomen in the place couldn't embarrass me althoughthey tried hard enough," he boasted. "One of thegirls in the house tried to get fresh, but I fooled her.As soon as she began to talk I went and sat in herlap. Everyone in the room laughed when I kissedher. I taught her to let me alone."

George Willard went out of the pool room andinto Main Street. For days the weather had beenbitter cold with a high wind blowing down on thetown from Lake Erie, eighteen miles to the north,but on that night the wind had died away and anew moon made the night unusually lovely. With-out thinking where he was going or what he wantedto do, George went out of Main Street and beganwalking in dimly lighted streets filled with framehouses.

Out of doors under the black sky filled with starshe forgot his companions of the pool room. Becauseit was dark and he was alone he began to talk aloud.In a spirit of play he reeled along the street imitatinga drunken man and then imagined himself a soldierclad in shining boots that reached to the knees andwearing a sword that jingled as he walked. As asoldier he pictured himself as an inspector, passingbefore a long line of men who stood at attention.He began to examine the accoutrements of the men.Before a tree he stopped and began to scold. "Yourpack is not in order," he said sharply. "How manytimes will I have to speak of this matter? Everythingmust be in order here. We have a difficult task be-fore us and no difficult task can be done withoutorder."

Hypnotized by his own words, the young manstumbled along the board sidewalk saying morewords. "There is a law for armies and for men too,"he muttered, lost in reflection. "The law begins withlittle things and spreads out until it covers every-thing. In every little thing there must be order, inthe place where men work, in their clothes, in theirthoughts. I myself must be orderly. I must learn thatlaw. I must get myself into touch with somethingorderly and big that swings through the night likea star. In my little way I must begin to learn some-thing, to give and swing and work with life, withthe law."

George Willard stopped by a picket fence near astreet lamp and his body began to tremble. He hadnever before thought such thoughts as had justcome into his head and he wondered where theyhad come from. For the moment it seemed to himthat some voice outside of himself had been talkingas he walked. He was amazed and delighted withhis own mind and when he walked on again spokeof the matter with fervor. "To come out of RansomSurbeck's pool room and think things like that," hewhispered. "It is better to be alone. If I talked likeArt Wilson the boys would understand me but theywouldn't understand what I've been thinking downhere."

In Winesburg, as in all Ohio towns of twentyyears ago, there was a section in which lived daylaborers. As the time of factories had not yet come,the laborers worked in the fields or were sectionhands on the railroads. They worked twelve hoursa day and received one dollar for the long day oftoil. The houses in which they lived were smallcheaply constructed wooden affairs with a garden atthe back. The more comfortable among them keptcows and perhaps a pig, housed in a little shed atthe rear of the garden.

With his head filled with resounding thoughts,George Willard walked into such a street on the clearJanuary night. The street was dimly lighted and inplaces there was no sidewalk. In the scene that layabout him there was something that excited his al-ready aroused fancy. For a year he had been devot-ing all of his odd moments to the reading of booksand now some tale he had read concerning fife inold world towns of the middle ages came sharplyback to his mind so that he stumbled forward withthe curious feeling of one revisiting a place that hadbeen a part of some former existence. On an impulsehe turned out of the street and went into a littledark alleyway behind the sheds in which lived thecows and pigs.

For a half hour he stayed in the alleyway, smellingthe strong smell of animals too closely housed andletting his mind play with the strange new thoughtsthat came to him. The very rankness of the smell ofmanure in the clear sweet air awoke somethingheady in his brain. The poor little houses lightedby kerosene lamps, the smoke from the chimneysmounting straight up into the clear air, the gruntingof pigs, the women clad in cheap calico dresses andwashing dishes in the kitchens, the footsteps of mencoming out of the houses and going off to the storesand saloons of Main Street, the dogs barking andthe children crying--all of these things made himseem, as he lurked in the darkness, oddly detachedand apart from all life.

The excited young man, unable to bear the weightof his own thoughts, began to move cautiouslyalong the alleyway. A dog attacked him and had tobe driven away with stones, and a man appeared atthe door of one of the houses and swore at the dog.George went into a vacant lot and throwing back hishead looked up at the sky. He felt unutterably bigand remade by the simple experience through whichhe had been passing and in a kind of fervor of emo-tion put up his hands, thrusting them into the dark-ness above his head and muttering words. Thedesire to say words overcame him and he saidwords without meaning, rolling them over on histongue and saying them because they were bravewords, full of meaning. "Death," he muttered,night, the sea, fear, loveliness."

George Willard came out of the vacant lot andstood again on the sidewalk facing the houses. Hefelt that all of the people in the little street must bebrothers and sisters to him and he wished he hadthe courage to call them out of their houses and toshake their hands. "If there were only a woman hereI would take hold of her hand and we would rununtil we were both tired out," he thought. "Thatwould make me feel better." With the thought of awoman in his mind he walked out of the street andwent toward the house where Belle Carpenter lived.He thought she would understand his mood andthat he could achieve in her presence a position hehad long been wanting to achieve. In the past whenhe had been with her and had kissed her lips hehad come away filled with anger at himself. He hadfelt like one being used for some obscure purposeand had not enjoyed the feeling. Now he thoughthe had suddenly become too big to be used.

When George got to Belle Carpenter's house therehad already been a visitor there before him. EdHandby had come to the door and calling Belle outof the house had tried to talk to her. He had wantedto ask the woman to come away with him and to behis wife, but when she came and stood by the doorhe lost his self-assurance and became sullen. "Youstay away from that kid," he growled, thinking ofGeorge Willard, and then, not knowing what else tosay, turned to go away. "If I catch you together Iwill break your bones and his too," he added. Thebartender had come to woo, not to threaten, andwas angry with himself because of his failure.

When her lover had departed Belle went indoorsand ran hurriedly upstairs. From a window at theupper part of the house she saw Ed Handby crossthe street and sit down on a horse block before thehouse of a neighbor. In the dim light the man satmotionless holding his head in his hands. She wasmade happy by the sight, and when George Willardcame to the door she greeted him effusively andhurriedly put on her hat. She thought that, as shewalked through the streets with young Willard, EdHandby would follow and she wanted to make himsuffer.

For an hour Belle Carpenter and the young re-porter walked about under the trees in the sweetnight air. George Willard was full of big words. Thesense of power that had come to him during thehour in the darkness in the alleyway remained withhim and he talked boldly, swaggering along andswinging his arms about. He wanted to make BelleCarpenter realize that he was aware of his formerweakness and that he had changed. "You'll find medifferent," he declared, thrusting his hands into hispockets and looking boldly into her eyes. "I don'tknow why but it is so. You've got to take me for aman or let me alone. That's how it is."

Up and down the quiet streets under the newmoon went the woman and the boy. When Georgehad finished talking they turned down a side streetand went across a bridge into a path that ran up theside of a hill. The hill began at Waterworks Pondand climbed upward to the Winesburg FairGrounds. On the hillside grew dense bushes andsmall trees and among the bushes were little openspaces carpeted with long grass, now stiff andfrozen.

As he walked behind the woman up the hillGeorge Willard's heart began to beat rapidly and hisshoulders straightened. Suddenly he decided thatBelle Carpenter was about to surrender herself tohim. The new force that had manifested itself in himhad, he felt, been at work upon her and had led toher conquest. The thought made him half drunkwith the sense of masculine power. Although hehad been annoyed that as they walked about shehad not seemed to be listening to his words, the factthat she had accompanied him to this place tookall his doubts away. "It is different. Everything hasbecome different," he thought and taking hold ofher shoulder turned her about and stood looking ather, his eyes shining with pride.

Belle Carpenter did not resist. When he kissed herupon the lips she leaned heavily against him andlooked over his shoulder into the darkness. In herwhole attitude there was a suggestion of waiting.Again, as in the alleyway, George Willard's mindran off into words and, holding the woman tightlyhe whispered the words into the still night. "Lust,"he whispered, "lust and night and women."

George Willard did not understand what hap-pened to him that night on the hillside. Later, whenhe got to his own room, he wanted to weep andthen grew half insane with anger and hate. He hatedBelle Carpenter and was sure that all his life hewould continue to hate her. On the hillside he hadled the woman to one of the little open spacesamong the bushes and had dropped to his kneesbeside her. As in the vacant lot, by the laborers'houses, he had put up his hands in gratitude for thenew power in himself and was waiting for thewoman to speak when Ed Handby appeared.

The bartender did not want to beat the boy, whohe thought had tried to take his woman away. Heknew that beating was unnecessary, that he hadpower within himself to accomplish his purposewithout using his fists. Gripping George by theshoulder and pulling him to his feet, he held himwith one hand while he looked at Belle Carpenterseated on the grass. Then with a quick wide move-ment of his arm he sent the younger man sprawlingaway into the bushes and began to bully thewoman, who had risen to her feet. "You're nogood," he said roughly. "I've half a mind not tobother with you. I'd let you alone if I didn't wantyou so much."

On his hands and knees in the bushes GeorgeWillard stared at the scene before him and tried hardto think. He prepared to spring at the man who hadhumiliated him. To be beaten seemed to be infinitelybetter than to be thus hurled ignominiously aside.

Three times the young reporter sprang at EdHandby and each time the bartender, catching himby the shoulder, hurled him back into the bushes.The older man seemed prepared to keep the exercisegoing indefinitely but George Willard's head struckthe root of a tree and he lay still. Then Ed Handbytook Belle Carpenter by the arm and marched heraway.

George heard the man and woman making theirway through the bushes. As he crept down the hill-side his heart was sick within him. He hated himselfand he hated the fate that had brought about hishumiliation. When his mind went back to the houralone in the alleyway he was puzzled and stoppingin the darkness listened, hoping to hear again thevoice outside himself that had so short a time beforeput new courage into his heart. When his wayhomeward led him again into the street of framehouses he could not bear the sight and began torun, wanting to get quickly out of the neighborhoodthat now seemed to him utterly squalid andcommonplace.

"QUEER"

FROM HIS SEAT on a box in the rough board shed thatstuck like a burr on the rear of Cowley & Son's storein Winesburg, Elmer Cowley, the junior member ofthe firm, could see through a dirty window into theprintshop of the Winesburg Eagle. Elmer was puttingnew shoelaces in his shoes. They did not go inreadily and he had to take the shoes off. With theshoes in his hand he sat looking at a large hole inthe heel of one of his stockings. Then lookingquickly up he saw George Willard, the only newspa-per reporter in Winesburg, standing at the back doorof the Eagle printshop and staring absentmindedlyabout. "Well, well, what next!" exclaimed the youngman with the shoes in his hand, jumping to his feetand creeping away from the window.

A flush crept into Elmer Cowley's face and hishands began to tremble. In Cowley & Son's store aJewish traveling salesman stood by the counter talk-ing to his father. He imagined the reporter couldhear what was being said and the thought made himfurious. With one of the shoes still held in his handhe stood in a corner of the shed and stamped witha stockinged foot upon the board floor.

Cowley & Son's store did not face the main streetof Winesburg. The front was on Maumee Street andbeyond it was Voight's wagon shop and a shed forthe sheltering of farmers' horses. Beside the store analleyway ran behind the main street stores and allday drays and delivery wagons, intent on bringingin and taking out goods, passed up and down. Thestore itself was indescribable. Will Henderson oncesaid of it that it sold everything and nothing. In thewindow facing Maumee Street stood a chunk of coalas large as an apple barrel, to indicate that ordersfor coal were taken, and beside the black mass ofthe coal stood three combs of honey grown brownand dirty in their wooden frames.

The honey had stood in the store window for sixmonths. It was for sale as were also the coat hang-ers, patent suspender buttons, cans of roof paint,bottles of rheumatism cure, and a substitute for cof-fee that companioned the honey in its patient will-ingness to serve the public.

Ebenezer Cowley, the man who stood in the storelistening to the eager patter of words that fell fromthe lips of the traveling man, was tall and lean andlooked unwashed. On his scrawny neck was a largewen partially covered by a grey beard. He wore along Prince Albert coat. The coat had been pur-chased to serve as a wedding garment. Before hebecame a merchant Ebenezer was a farmer and afterhis marriage he wore the Prince Albert coat tochurch on Sundays and on Saturday afternoonswhen he came into town to trade. When he soldthe farm to become a merchant he wore the coatconstantly. It had become brown with age and wascovered with grease spots, but in it Ebenezer alwaysfelt dressed up and ready for the day in town.

As a merchant Ebenezer was not happily placedin life and he had not been happily placed as afarmer. Still he existed. His family, consisting of adaughter named Mabel and the son, lived with himin rooms above the store and it did not cost themmuch to live. His troubles were not financial. Hisunhappiness as a merchant lay in the fact that whena traveling man with wares to be sold came in atthe front door he was afraid. Behind the counterhe stood shaking his head. He was afraid, first thathe would stubbornly refuse to buy and thus lose theopportunity to sell again; second that he would notbe stubborn enough and would in a moment ofweakness buy what could not be sold.

In the store on the morning when Elmer Cowleysaw George Willard standing and apparently lis-tening at the back door of the Eagle printshop, asituation had arisen that always stirred the son'swrath. The traveling man talked and Ebenezer lis-tened, his whole figure expressing uncertainty. "Yousee how quickly it is done," said the traveling man,who had for sale a small flat metal substitute forcollar buttons. With one hand he quickly unfasteneda collar from his shirt and then fastened it on again.He assumed a flattering wheedling tone. "I tell youwhat, men have come to the end of all this foolingwith collar buttons and you are the man to makemoney out of the change that is coming. I am offer-ing you the exclusive agency for this town. Taketwenty dozen of these fasteners and I'll not visit anyother store. I'll leave the field to you."

The traveling man leaned over the counter andtapped with his finger on Ebenezer's breast. "It's anopportunity and I want you to take it," he urged."A friend of mine told me about you. 'See that manCowley,' he said. 'He's a live one.'"

The traveling man paused and waited. Taking abook from his pocket he began writing out theorder. Still holding the shoe in his hand Elmer Cow-ley went through the store, past the two absorbedmen, to a glass showcase near the front door. Hetook a cheap revolver from the case and began towave it about. "You get out of here!" he shrieked."We don't want any collar fasteners here." An ideacame to him. "Mind, I'm not making any threat,"he added. "I don't say I'll shoot. Maybe I just tookthis gun out of the case to look at it. But you betterget out. Yes sir, I'll say that. You better grab upyour things and get out."

The young storekeeper's voice rose to a screamand going behind the counter he began to advanceupon the two men. "We're through being foolshere!" he cried. "We ain't going to buy any morestuff until we begin to sell. We ain't going to keepon being queer and have folks staring and listening.You get out of here!"

The traveling man left. Raking the samples of col-lar fasteners off the counter into a black leather bag,he ran. He was a small man and very bow-leggedand he ran awkwardly. The black bag caught againstthe door and he stumbled and fell. "Crazy, that'swhat he is--crazy!" he sputtered as he arose fromthe sidewalk and hurried away.

In the store Elmer Cowley and his father stared ateach other. Now that the immediate object of hiswrath had fled, the younger man was embarrassed."Well, I meant it. I think we've been queer longenough," he declared, going to the showcase andreplacing the revolver. Sitting on a barrel he pulledon and fastened the shoe he had been holding inhis hand. He was waiting for some word of under-standing from his father but when Ebenezer spokehis words only served to reawaken the wrath in theson and the young man ran out of the store withoutreplying. Scratching his grey beard with his longdirty fingers, the merchant looked at his son withthe same wavering uncertain stare with which hehad confronted the traveling man. "I'll be starched,"he said softly. "Well, well, I'll be washed and ironedand starched!"

Elmer Cowley went out of Winesburg and alonga country road that paralleled the railroad track. Hedid not know where he was going or what he wasgoing to do. In the shelter of a deep cut where theroad, after turning sharply to the right, dippedunder the tracks he stopped and the passion thathad been the cause of his outburst in the store beganto again find expression. "I will not be queer--oneto be looked at and listened to," he declared aloud."I'll be like other people. I'll show that George Wil-lard. He'll find out. I'll show him!"

The distraught young man stood in the middle ofthe road and glared back at the town. He did notknow the reporter George Willard and had no spe-cial feeling concerning the tall boy who ran abouttown gathering the town news. The reporter hadmerely come, by his presence in the office and inthe printshop of the Winesburg Eagle, to stand forsomething in the young merchant's mind. He thoughtthe boy who passed and repassed Cowley & Son'sstore and who stopped to talk to people in the streetmust be thinking of him and perhaps laughing athim. George Willard, he felt, belonged to the town,typified the town, represented in his person thespirit of the town. Elmer Cowley could not havebelieved that George Willard had also his days ofunhappiness, that vague hungers and secret unnam-able desires visited also his mind. Did he not repre-sent public opinion and had not the public opinionof Winesburg condemned the Cowleys to queerness?Did he not walk whistling and laughing throughMain Street? Might not one by striking his personstrike also the greater enemy--the thing thatsmiled and went its own way--the judgment ofWinesburg?

Elmer Cowley was extraordinarily tall and hisarms were long and powerful. His hair, his eye-brows, and the downy beard that had begun togrow upon his chin, were pale almost to whiteness.His teeth protruded from between his lips and hiseyes were blue with the colorless blueness of themarbles called "aggies" that the boys of Winesburgcarried in their pockets. Elmer had lived in Wines-burg for a year and had made no friends. He was,he felt, one condemned to go through life withoutfriends and he hated the thought.

Sullenly the tall young man tramped along theroad with his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets.The day was cold with a raw wind, but presentlythe sun began to shine and the road became softand muddy. The tops of the ridges of frozen mudthat formed the road began to melt and the mudclung to Elmer's shoes. His feet became cold. Whenhe had gone several miles he turned off the road,crossed a field and entered a wood. In the wood hegathered sticks to build a fire, by which he sat tryingto warm himself, miserable in body and in mind.

For two hours he sat on the log by the fire andthen, arising and creeping cautiously through amass of underbrush, he went to a fence and lookedacross fields to a small farmhouse surrounded bylow sheds. A smile came to his lips and he beganmaking motions with his long arms to a man whowas husking corn in one of the fields.

In his hour of misery the young merchant hadreturned to the farm where he had lived throughboyhood and where there was another human beingto whom he felt he could explain himself. The manon the farm was a half-witted old fellow namedMook. He had once been employed by EbenezerCowley and had stayed on the farm when it wassold. The old man lived in one of the unpaintedsheds back of the farmhouse and puttered about allday in the fields.

Mook the half-wit lived happily. With childlikefaith he believed in the intelligence of the animalsthat lived in the sheds with him, and when he waslonely held long conversations with the cows, thepigs, and even with the chickens that ran about thebarnyard. He it was who had put the expressionregarding being "laundered" into the mouth of hisformer employer. When excited or surprised by any-thing he smiled vaguely and muttered: "I'll bewashed and ironed. Well, well, I'll be washed andironed and starched."

When the half-witted old man left his husking ofcorn and came into the wood to meet Elmer Cowley,he was neither surprised nor especially interested inthe sudden appearance of the young man. His feetalso were cold and he sat on the log by the fire,grateful for the warmth and apparently indifferentto what Elmer had to say.

Elmer talked earnestly and with great freedom,walking up and down and waving his arms about."You don't understand what's the matter with me soof course you don't care," he declared. "With meit's different. Look how it has always been with me.Father is queer and mother was queer, too. Eventhe clothes mother used to wear were not like otherpeople's clothes, and look at that coat in which fa-ther goes about there in town, thinking he's dressedup, too. Why don't he get a new one? It wouldn'tcost much. I'll tell you why. Father doesn't knowand when mother was alive she didn't know either.Mabel is different. She knows but she won't sayanything. I will, though. I'm not going to be staredat any longer. Why look here, Mook, father doesn'tknow that his store there in town is just a queerjumble, that he'll never sell the stuff he buys. Heknows nothing about it. Sometimes he's a little wor-ried that trade doesn't come and then he goes andbuys something else. In the evenings he sits by thefire upstairs and says trade will come after a while.He isn't worried. He's queer. He doesn't knowenough to be worried."

The excited young man became more excited. "Hedon't know but I know," he shouted, stopping togaze down into the dumb, unresponsive face of thehalf-wit. "I know too well. I can't stand it. Whenwe lived out here it was different. I worked and atnight I went to bed and slept. I wasn't always seeingpeople and thinking as I am now. In the evening,there in town, I go to the post office or to the depotto see the train come in, and no one says anythingto me. Everyone stands around and laughs and theytalk but they say nothing to me. Then I feel so queerthat I can't talk either. I go away. I don't say any-thing. I can't."

The fury of the young man became uncontrollable."I won't stand it," he yelled, looking up at the barebranches of the trees. "I'm not made to stand it."

Maddened by the dull face of the man on the logby the fire, Elmer turned and glared at him as hehad glared back along the road at the town ofWinesburg. "Go on back to work," he screamed."What good does it do me to talk to you?" Athought came to him and his voice dropped. "I'm acoward too, eh?" he muttered. "Do you know whyI came clear out here afoot? I had to tell someoneand you were the only one I could tell. I hunted outanother queer one, you see. I ran away, that's what Idid. I couldn't stand up to someone like that GeorgeWillard. I had to come to you. I ought to tell himand I will."

Again his voice arose to a shout and his arms flewabout. "I will tell him. I won't be queer. I don't carewhat they think. I won't stand it."

Elmer Cowley ran out of the woods leaving thehalf-wit sitting on the log before the fire. Presentlythe old man arose and climbing over the fence wentback to his work in the corn. "I'll be washed andironed and starched," he declared. "Well, well, I'llbe washed and ironed." Mook was interested. Hewent along a lane to a field where two cows stoodnibbling at a straw stack. "Elmer was here," he saidto the cows. "Elmer is crazy. You better get behindthe stack where he don't see you. He'll hurt some-one yet, Elmer will."

At eight o'clock that evening Elmer Cowley puthis head in at the front door of the office of theWinesburg Eagle where George Willard sat writing.His cap was pulled down over his eyes and a sullendetermined look was on his face. "You come on out-side with me," he said, stepping in and closing thedoor. He kept his hand on the knob as though pre-pared to resist anyone else coming in. "You justcome along outside. I want to see you."

George Willard and Elmer Cowley walked throughthe main street of Winesburg. The night was coldand George Willard had on a new overcoat andlooked very spruce and dressed up. He thrust hishands into the overcoat pockets and looked inquir-ingly at his companion. He had long been wantingto make friends with the young merchant and findout what was in his mind. Now he thought he sawa chance and was delighted. "I wonder what he'sup to? Perhaps he thinks he has a piece of news forthe paper. It can't be a fire because I haven't heardthe fire bell and there isn't anyone running," hethought.

In the main street of Winesburg, on the cold No-vember evening, but few citizens appeared andthese hurried along bent on getting to the stove atthe back of some store. The windows of the storeswere frosted and the wind rattled the tin sign thathung over the entrance to the stairway leading toDoctor Welling's office. Before Hern's Grocery a bas-ket of apples and a rack filled with new broomsstood on the sidewalk. Elmer Cowley stopped andstood facing George Willard. He tried to talk and hisarms began to pump up and down. His face workedspasmodically. He seemed about to shout. "Oh, yougo on back," he cried. "Don't stay out here withme. I ain't got anything to tell you. I don't want tosee you at all."

For three hours the distracted young merchantwandered through the resident streets of Winesburgblind with anger, brought on by his failure to declarehis determination not to be queer. Bitterly the senseof defeat settled upon him and he wanted to weep.After the hours of futile sputtering at nothingnessthat had occupied the afternoon and his failure inthe presence of the young reporter, he thought hecould see no hope of a future for himself.

And then a new idea dawned for him. In the dark-ness that surrounded him he began to see a light.Going to the now darkened store, where Cowley &Son had for over a year waited vainly for trade tocome, he crept stealthily in and felt about in a barrelthat stood by the stove at the rear. In the barrelbeneath shavings lay a tin box containing Cowley &Son's cash. Every evening Ebenezer Cowley put thebox in the barrel when he closed the store and wentupstairs to bed. "They wouldn't never think of acareless place like that," he told himself, thinking ofrobbers.

Elmer took twenty dollars, two ten-dollar bills,from the little roll containing perhaps four hundreddollars, the cash left from the sale of the farm. Thenreplacing the box beneath the shavings he went qui-etly out at the front door and walked again in thestreets.

The idea that he thought might put an end to allof his unhappiness was very simple. "I will get outof here, run away from home," he told himself. Heknew that a local freight train passed throughWinesburg at midnight and went on to Cleveland,where it arrived at dawn. He would steal a ride onthe local and when he got to Cleveland would losehimself in the crowds there. He would get workin some shop and become friends with the otherworkmen and would be indistinguishable. Then hecould talk and laugh. He would no longer be queerand would make friends. Life would begin to havewarmth and meaning for him as it had for others.

The tall awkward young man, striding throughthe streets, laughed at himself because he had beenangry and had been half afraid of George Willard.He decided he would have his talk with the youngreporter before he left town, that he would tell himabout things, perhaps challenge him, challenge allof Winesburg through him.

Aglow with new confidence Elmer went to theoffice of the New Willard House and pounded onthe door. A sleep-eyed boy slept on a cot in theoffice. He received no salary but was fed at the hoteltable and bore with pride the title of "night clerk."Before the boy Elmer was bold, insistent. "You 'wakehim up," he commanded. "You tell him to comedown by the depot. I got to see him and I'm goingaway on the local. Tell him to dress and come ondown. I ain't got much time."

The midnight local had finished its work in Wines-burg and the trainsmen were coupling cars, swing-ing lanterns and preparing to resume their flighteast. George Willard, rubbing his eyes and againwearing the new overcoat, ran down to the stationplatform afire with curiosity. "Well, here I am. Whatdo you want? You've got something to tell me, eh?"he said.

Elmer tried to explain. He wet his lips with histongue and looked at the train that had begun togroan and get under way. "Well, you see," hebegan, and then lost control of his tongue. "I'll bewashed and ironed. I'll be washed and ironed andstarched," he muttered half incoherently.

Elmer Cowley danced with fury beside the groan-ing train in the darkness on the station platform.Lights leaped into the air and bobbed up and downbefore his eyes. Taking the two ten-dollar bills fromhis pocket he thrust them into George Willard'shand. "Take them," he cried. "I don't want them.Give them to father. I stole them." With a snarl ofrage he turned and his long arms began to flay theair. Like one struggling for release from hands thatheld him he struck out, hitting George Willard blowafter blow on the breast, the neck, the mouth. Theyoung reporter rolled over on the platform half un-conscious, stunned by the terrific force of the blows.Springing aboard the passing train and running overthe tops of cars, Elmer sprang down to a flat car andlying on his face looked back, trying to see the fallenman in the darkness. Pride surged up in him. "Ishowed him," he cried. "I guess I showed him. Iain't so queer. I guess I showed him I ain't soqueer."

THE UNTOLD LIE

RAY PEARSON and Hal Winters were farm hands em-ployed on a farm three miles north of Winesburg.On Saturday afternoons they came into town andwandered about through the streets with other fel-lows from the country.

Ray was a quiet, rather nervous man of perhapsfifty with a brown beard and shoulders rounded bytoo much and too hard labor. In his nature he wasas unlike Hal Winters as two men can be unlike.

Ray was an altogether serious man and had a littlesharp-featured wife who had also a sharp voice. Thetwo, with half a dozen thin-legged children, lived ina tumble-down frame house beside a creek at theback end of the Wills farm where Ray was employed.

Hal Winters, his fellow employee, was a youngfellow. He was not of the Ned Winters family, whowere very respectable people in Winesburg, but wasone of the three sons of the old man called Wind-peter Winters who had a sawmill near Unionville,six miles away, and who was looked upon by every-one in Winesburg as a confirmed old reprobate.

People from the part of Northern Ohio in whichWinesburg lies will remember old Windpeter by hisunusual and tragic death. He got drunk one eveningin town and started to drive home to Unionvillealong the railroad tracks. Henry Brattenburg, thebutcher, who lived out that way, stopped him at theedge of the town and told him he was sure to meetthe down train but Windpeter slashed at him withhis whip and drove on. When the train struck andkilled him and his two horses a farmer and his wifewho were driving home along a nearby road sawthe accident. They said that old Windpeter stood upon the seat of his wagon, raving and swearing atthe onrushing locomotive, and that he fairly screamedwith delight when the team, maddened by his inces-sant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead to cer-tain death. Boys like young George Willard and SethRichmond will remember the incident quite vividlybecause, although everyone in our town said thatthe old man would go straight to hell and that thecommunity was better off without him, they had asecret conviction that he knew what he was doingand admired his foolish courage. Most boys haveseasons of wishing they could die gloriously insteadof just being grocery clerks and going on with theirhumdrum lives.

But this is not the story of Windpeter Winters noryet of his son Hal who worked on the Wills farmwith Ray Pearson. It is Ray's story. It will, however,be necessary to talk a little of young Hal so that youwill get into the spirit of it.

Hal was a bad one. Everyone said that. Therewere three of the Winters boys in that family, John,Hal, and Edward, all broad-shouldered big fellowslike old Windpeter himself and all fighters andwoman-chasers and generally all-around bad ones.

Hal was the worst of the lot and always up tosome devilment. He once stole a load of boards fromhis father's mill and sold them in Winesburg. Withthe money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashyclothes. Then he got drunk and when his fathercame raving into town to find him, they met andfought with their fists on Main Street and were ar-rested and put into jail together.

Hal went to work on the Wills farm because therewas a country school teacher out that way who hadtaken his fancy. He was only twenty-two then buthad already been in two or three of what were spo-ken of in Winesburg as "women scrapes." Everyonewho heard of his infatuation for the school teacherwas sure it would turn out badly. "He'll only gether into trouble, you'll see," was the word that wentaround.

And so these two men, Ray and Hal, were at workin a field on a day in the late October. They werehusking corn and occasionally something was saidand they laughed. Then came silence. Ray, who wasthe more sensitive and always minded things more,had chapped hands and they hurt. He put them intohis coat pockets and looked away across the fields.He was in a sad, distracted mood and was affectedby the beauty of the country. If you knew theWinesburg country in the fall and how the low hillsare all splashed with yellows and reds you wouldunderstand his feeling. He began to think of thetime, long ago when he was a young fellow livingwith his father, then a baker in Winesburg, and howon such days he had wandered away into the woodsto gather nuts, hunt rabbits, or just to loaf aboutand smoke his pipe. His marriage had come aboutthrough one of his days of wandering. He had in-duced a girl who waited on trade in his father's shopto go with him and something had happened. Hewas thinking of that afternoon and how it had af-fected his whole life when a spirit of protest awokein him. He had forgotten about Hal and mutteredwords. "Tricked by Gad, that's what I was, trickedby life and made a fool of," he said in a low voice.

As though understanding his thoughts, Hal Win-ters spoke up. "Well, has it been worth while? Whatabout it, eh? What about marriage and all that?" heasked and then laughed. Hal tried to keep on laugh-ing but he too was in an earnest mood. He beganto talk earnestly. "Has a fellow got to do it?" heasked. "Has he got to be harnessed up and driventhrough life like a horse?"

Hal didn't wait for an answer but sprang to hisfeet and began to walk back and forth between thecorn shocks. He was getting more and more excited.Bending down suddenly he picked up an ear of theyellow corn and threw it at the fence. "I've got NellGunther in trouble," he said. "I'm telling you, butyou keep your mouth shut."

Ray Pearson arose and stood staring. He was al-most a foot shorter than Hal, and when the youngerman came and put his two hands on the older man'sshoulders they made a picture. There they stood inthe big empty field with the quiet corn shocks stand-ing in rows behind them and the red and yellowhills in the distance, and from being just two indif-ferent workmen they had become all alive to eachother. Hal sensed it and because that was his wayhe laughed. "Well, old daddy," he said awkwardly,"come on, advise me. I've got Nell in trouble. Per-haps you've been in the same fix yourself. I knowwhat everyone would say is the right thing to do,but what do you say? Shall I marry and settle down?Shall I put myself into the harness to be worn outlike an old horse? You know me, Ray. There can'tanyone break me but I can break myself. Shall I doit or shall I tell Nell to go to the devil? Come on,you tell me. Whatever you say, Ray, I'll do."

Ray couldn't answer. He shook Hal's hands looseand turning walked straight away toward the barn.He was a sensitive man and there were tears in hiseyes. He knew there was only one thing to say toHal Winters, son of old Windpeter Winters, onlyone thing that all his own training and all the beliefsof the people he knew would approve, but for hislife he couldn't say what he knew he should say.

At half-past four that afternoon Ray was putteringabout the barnyard when his wife came up the lanealong the creek and called him. After the talk withHal he hadn't returned to the cornfield but workedabout the barn. He had already done the eveningchores and had seen Hal, dressed and ready for aroistering night in town, come out of the farmhouseand go into the road. Along the path to his ownhouse he trudged behind his wife, looking at theground and thinking. He couldn't make out whatwas wrong. Every time he raised his eyes and sawthe beauty of the country in the failing light hewanted to do something he had never done before,shout or scream or hit his wife with his fists orsomething equally unexpected and terrifying. Alongthe path he went scratching his head and trying tomake it out. He looked hard at his wife's back butshe seemed all right.

She only wanted him to go into town for groceriesand as soon as she had told him what she wantedbegan to scold. "You're always puttering," she said."Now I want you to hustle. There isn't anything inthe house for supper and you've got to get to townand back in a hurry."

Ray went into his own house and took an overcoatfrom a hook back of the door. It was torn about thepockets and the collar was shiny. His wife went intothe bedroom and presently came out with a soiledcloth in one hand and three silver dollars in theother. Somewhere in the house a child wept bitterlyand a dog that had been sleeping by the stove aroseand yawned. Again the wife scolded. "The childrenwill cry and cry. Why are you always puttering?"she asked.

Ray went out of the house and climbed the fenceinto a field. It was just growing dark and the scenethat lay before him was lovely. All the low hills werewashed with color and even the little clusters ofbushes in the corners of the fences were alive withbeauty. The whole world seemed to Ray Pearson tohave become alive with something just as he andHal had suddenly become alive when they stood inthe corn field stating into each other's eyes.

The beauty of the country about Winesburg wastoo much for Ray on that fall evening. That is allthere was to it. He could not stand it. Of a suddenhe forgot all about being a quiet old farm hand andthrowing off the torn overcoat began to run acrossthe field. As he ran he shouted a protest against hislife, against all life, against everything that makeslife ugly. "There was no promise made," he criedinto the empty spaces that lay about him. "I didn'tpromise my Minnie anything and Hal hasn't madeany promise to Nell. I know he hasn't. She wentinto the woods with him because she wanted to go.What he wanted she wanted. Why should I pay?Why should Hal pay? Why should anyone pay? Idon't want Hal to become old and worn out. I'll tellhim. I won't let it go on. I'll catch Hal before he getsto town and I'll tell him."

Ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and felldown. "I must catch Hal and tell him," he keptthinking, and although his breath came in gasps hekept running harder and harder. As he ran hethought of things that hadn't come into his mind foryears--how at the time he married he had plannedto go west to his uncle in Portland, Oregon--howhe hadn't wanted to be a farm hand, but hadthought when he got out West he would go to seaand be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride ahorse into Western towns, shouting and laughingand waking the people in the houses with his wildcries. Then as he ran he remembered his childrenand in fancy felt their hands clutching at him. Allof his thoughts of himself were involved with thethoughts of Hal and he thought the children wereclutching at the younger man also. "They are theaccidents of life, Hal," he cried. "They are not mineor yours. I had nothing to do with them."

Darkness began to spread over the fields as RayPearson ran on and on. His breath came in littlesobs. When he came to the fence at the edge of theroad and confronted Hal Winters, all dressed up andsmoking a pipe as he walked jauntily along, hecould not have told what he thought or what hewanted.

Ray Pearson lost his nerve and this is really theend of the story of what happened to him. It wasalmost dark when he got to the fence and he put hishands on the top bar and stood staring. Hal Wintersjumped a ditch and coming up close to Ray put hishands into his pockets and laughed. He seemed tohave lost his own sense of what had happened inthe corn field and when he put up a strong handand took hold of the lapel of Ray's coat he shookthe old man as he might have shaken a dog thathad misbehaved.

"You came to tell me, eh?" he said. "Well, nevermind telling me anything. I'm not a coward and I'vealready made up my mind." He laughed again andjumped back across the ditch. "Nell ain't no fool,"he said. "She didn't ask me to marry her. I want tomarry her. I want to settle down and have kids."

Ray Pearson also laughed. He felt like laughing athimself and all the world.

As the form of Hal Winters disappeared in thedusk that lay over the road that led to Winesburg,he turned and walked slowly back across the fieldsto where he had left his torn overcoat. As he wentsome memory of pleasant evenings spent with thethin-legged children in the tumble-down house bythe creek must have come into his mind, for he mut-tered words. "It's just as well. Whatever I told himwould have been a lie," he said softly, and thenhis form also disappeared into the darkness of thefields.

DRINK

TOM FOSTER came to Winesburg from Cincinnatiwhen he was still young and could get many newimpressions. His grandmother had been raised on afarm near the town and as a young girl had gone toschool there when Winesburg was a village oftwelve or fifteen houses clustered about a generalstore on the Trunion Pike.

What a life the old woman had led since she wentaway from the frontier settlement and what astrong, capable little old thing she was! She hadbeen in Kansas, in Canada, and in New York City,traveling about with her husband, a mechanic, be-fore he died. Later she went to stay with herdaughter, who had also married a mechanic andlived in Covington, Kentucky, across the riverfrom Cincinnati.

Then began the hard years for Tom Foster'sgrandmother. First her son-in-law was killed by apoliceman during a strike and then Tom's motherbecame an invalid and died also. The grandmotherhad saved a little money, but it was swept away bythe illness of the daughter and by the cost of thetwo funerals. She became a half worn-out oldwoman worker and lived with the grandson abovea junk shop on a side street in Cincinnati. For fiveyears she scrubbed the floors in an office buildingand then got a place as dish washer in a restaurant.Her hands were all twisted out of shape. When shetook hold of a mop or a broom handle the handslooked like the dried stems of an old creeping vineclinging to a tree.

The old woman came back to Winesburg as soonas she got the chance. One evening as she was com-ing home from work she found a pocket-book con-taining thirty-seven dollars, and that opened theway. The trip was a great adventure for the boy. Itwas past seven o'clock at night when the grand-mother came home with the pocket-book held tightlyin her old hands and she was so excited she couldscarcely speak. She insisted on leaving Cincinnatithat night, saying that if they stayed until morningthe owner of the money would be sure to find themout and make trouble. Tom, who was then sixteenyears old, had to go trudging off to the station withthe old woman, bearing all of their earthly belong-ings done up in a worn-out blanket and slung acrosshis back. By his side walked the grandmother urginghim forward. Her toothless old mouth twitched ner-vously, and when Tom grew weary and wanted toput the pack down at a street crossing, she snatchedit up and if he had not prevented would have slungit across her own back. When they got into the trainand it had run out of the city she was as delightedas a girl and talked as the boy had never heard hertalk before.

All through the night as the train rattled along,the grandmother told Tom tales of Winesburg andof how he would enjoy his life working in the fieldsand shooting wild things in the woods there. Shecould not believe that the tiny village of fifty yearsbefore had grown into a thriving town in her ab-sence, and in the morning when the train came toWinesburg did not want to get off. "It isn't what Ithought. It may be hard for you here," she said, andthen the train went on its way and the two stoodconfused, not knowing where to turn, in the pres-ence of Albert Longworth, the Winesburg baggagemaster.

But Tom Foster did get along all right. He wasone to get along anywhere. Mrs. White, the banker'swife, employed his grandmother to work in thekitchen and he got a place as stable boy in the bank-er's new brick barn.

In Winesburg servants were hard to get. Thewoman who wanted help in her housework em-ployed a "hired girl" who insisted on sitting at thetable with the family. Mrs. White was sick of hiredgirls and snatched at the chance to get hold of theold city woman. She furnished a room for the boyTom upstairs in the barn. "He can mow the lawnand run errands when the horses do not need atten-tion," she explained to her husband.

Tom Foster was rather small for his age and hada large head covered with stiff black hair that stoodstraight up. The hair emphasized the bigness of hishead. His voice was the softest thing imaginable,and he was himself so gentle and quiet that heslipped into the life of the town without attractingthe least bit of attention.

One could not help wondering where Tom Fostergot his gentleness. In Cincinnati he had lived in aneighborhood where gangs of tough boys prowledthrough the streets, and all through his early forma-tive years he ran about with tough boys. For a whilehe was a messenger for a telegraph company anddelivered messages in a neighborhood sprinkledwith houses of prostitution. The women in thehouses knew and loved Tom Foster and the toughboys in the gangs loved him also.

He never asserted himself. That was one thingthat helped him escape. In an odd way he stood inthe shadow of the wall of life, was meant to standin the shadow. He saw the men and women in thehouses of lust, sensed their casual and horrible loveaffairs, saw boys fighting and listened to their talesof thieving and drunkenness, unmoved and strangelyunaffected.

Once Tom did steal. That was while he still livedin the city. The grandmother was ill at the time andhe himself was out of work. There was nothing toeat in the house, and so he went into a harness shopon a side street and stole a dollar and seventy-fivecents out of the cash drawer.

The harness shop was run by an old man with along mustache. He saw the boy lurking about andthought nothing of it. When he went out into thestreet to talk to a teamster Tom opened the cashdrawer and taking the money walked away. Laterhe was caught and his grandmother settled the mat-ter by offering to come twice a week for a monthand scrub the shop. The boy was ashamed, but hewas rather glad, too. "It is all right to be ashamedand makes me understand new things," he said tothe grandmother, who didn't know what the boywas talking about but loved him so much that itdidn't matter whether she understood or not.

For a year Tom Foster lived in the banker's stableand then lost his place there. He didn't take verygood care of the horses and he was a constantsource of irritation to the banker's wife. She told himto mow the lawn and he forgot. Then she sent himto the store or to the post office and he did not comeback but joined a group of men and boys and spentthe whole afternoon with them, standing about, lis-tening and occasionally, when addressed, saying afew words. As in the city in the houses of prostitu-tion and with the rowdy boys running through thestreets at night, so in Winesburg among its citizenshe had always the power to be a part of and yetdistinctly apart from the life about him.

After Tom lost his place at Banker White's he didnot live with his grandmother, although often in theevening she came to visit him. He rented a room atthe rear of a little frame building belonging to oldRufus Whiting. The building was on Duane Street,just off Main Street, and had been used for years asa law office by the old man, who had become toofeeble and forgetful for the practice of his professionbut did not realize his inefficiency. He liked Tomand let him have the room for a dollar a month. Inthe late afternoon when the lawyer had gone homethe boy had the place to himself and spent hourslying on the floor by the stove and thinking ofthings. In the evening the grandmother came andsat in the lawyer's chair to smoke a pipe while Tomremained silent, as he always, did in the presence ofeveryone.

Often the old woman talked with great vigor.Sometimes she was angry about some happening atthe banker's house and scolded away for hours. Outof her own earnings she bought a mop and regularlyscrubbed the lawyer's office. Then when the placewas spotlessly clean and smelled clean she lightedher clay pipe and she and Tom had a smoke to-gether. "When you get ready to die then I will diealso," she said to the boy lying on the floor besideher chair.

Tom Foster enjoyed life in Winesburg. He did oddjobs, such as cutting wood for kitchen stoves andmowing the grass before houses. In late May andearly June he picked strawberries in the fields. Hehad time to loaf and he enjoyed loafing. BankerWhite had given him a cast-off coat which was toolarge for him, but his grandmother cut it down, andhe had also an overcoat, got at the same place, thatwas lined with fur. The fur was worn away in spots,but the coat was warm and in the winter Tom sleptin it. He thought his method of getting along goodenough and was happy and satisfied with the wayfife in Winesburg had turned out for him.

The most absurd little things made Tom Fosterhappy. That, I suppose, was why people loved him.In Hern's Grocery they would be roasting coffee onFriday afternoon, preparatory to the Saturday rushof trade, and the rich odor invaded lower MainStreet. Tom Foster appeared and sat on a box at therear of the store. For an hour he did not move butsat perfectly still, filling his being with the spicyodor that made him half drunk with happiness. "Ilike it," he said gently. "It makes me think of thingsfar away, places and things like that."

One night Tom Foster got drunk. That came aboutin a curious way. He never had been drunk before,and indeed in all his fife had never taken a drink ofanything intoxicating, but he felt he needed to bedrunk that one time and so went and did it.

In Cincinnati, when he lived there, Tom hadfound out many things, things about ugliness andcrime and lust. Indeed, he knew more of thesethings than anyone else in Winesburg. The matterof sex in particular had presented itself to him in aquite horrible way and had made a deep impressionon his mind. He thought, after what he had seen ofthe women standing before the squalid houses oncold nights and the look he had seen in the eyes ofthe men who stopped to talk to them, that he wouldput sex altogether out of his own life. One of thewomen of the neighborhood tempted him once andhe went into a room with her. He never forgot thesmell of the room nor the greedy look that came intothe eyes of the woman. It sickened him and in avery terrible way left a scar on his soul. He hadalways before thought of women as quite innocentthings, much like his grandmother, but after thatone experience in the room he dismissed womenfrom his mind. So gentle was his nature that hecould not hate anything and not being able to under-stand he decided to forget.

And Tom did forget until he came to Winesburg.After he had lived there for two years somethingbegan to stir in him. On all sides he saw youth mak-ing love and he was himself a youth. Before heknew what had happened he was in love also. Hefell in love with Helen White, daughter of the manfor whom he had worked, and found himself think-ing of her at night.

That was a problem for Tom and he settled it inhis own way. He let himself think of Helen Whitewhenever her figure came into his mind and onlyconcerned himself with the manner of his thoughts.He had a fight, a quiet determined little fight of hisown, to keep his desires in the channel where hethought they belonged, but on the whole he wasvictorious.

And then came the spring night when he gotdrunk. Tom was wild on that night. He was like aninnocent young buck of the forest that has eatenof some maddening weed. The thing began, ran itscourse, and was ended in one night, and you maybe sure that no one in Winesburg was any the worsefor Tom's outbreak.

In the first place, the night was one to make asensitive nature drunk. The trees along the resi-dence streets of the town were all newly clothed insoft green leaves, in the gardens behind the housesmen were puttering about in vegetable gardens, andin the air there was a hush, a waiting kind of silencevery stirring to the blood.

Tom left his room on Duane Street just as theyoung night began to make itself felt. First hewalked through the streets, going softly and quietlyalong, thinking thoughts that he tried to put intowords. He said that Helen White was a flame danc-ing in the air and that he was a little tree withoutleaves standing out sharply against the sky. Thenhe said that she was a wind, a strong terrible wind,coming out of the darkness of a stormy sea and thathe was a boat left on the shore of the sea by afisherman.

That idea pleased the boy and he sauntered alongplaying with it. He went into Main Street and saton the curbing before Wacker's tobacco store. For anhour he lingered about listening to the talk of men,but it did not interest him much and he slippedaway. Then he decided to get drunk and went intoWilly's saloon and bought a bottle of whiskey. Put-ting the bottle into his pocket, he walked out oftown, wanting to be alone to think more thoughtsand to drink the whiskey.

Tom got drunk sitting on a bank of new grassbeside the road about a mile north of town. Beforehim was a white road and at his back an apple or-chard in full bloom. He took a drink out of the bottleand then lay down on the grass. He thought ofmornings in Winesburg and of how the stones inthe graveled driveway by Banker White's housewere wet with dew and glistened in the morninglight. He thought of the nights in the barn when itrained and he lay awake hearing the drumming ofthe raindrops and smelling the warm smell of horsesand of hay. Then he thought of a storm that hadgone roaring through Winesburg several days beforeand, his mind going back, he relived the night hehad spent on the train with his grandmother whenthe two were coming from Cincinnati. Sharply heremembered how strange it had seemed to sit qui-etly in the coach and to feel the power of the enginehurling the train along through the night.

Tom got drunk in a very short time. He kept tak-ing drinks from the bottle as the thoughts visitedhim and when his head began to reel got up andwalked along the road going away from Winesburg.There was a bridge on the road that ran out ofWinesburg north to Lake Erie and the drunken boymade his way along the road to the bridge. Therehe sat down. He tried to drink again, but when hehad taken the cork out of the bottle he became illand put it quickly back. His head was rocking backand forth and so he sat on the stone approach tothe bridge and sighed. His head seemed to be flyingabout like a pinwheel and then projecting itself offinto space and his arms and legs flopped helplesslyabout.

At eleven o'clock Tom got back into town. GeorgeWillard found him wandering about and took himinto the Eagle printshop. Then he became afraid thatthe drunken boy would make a mess on the floorand helped him into the alleyway.

The reporter was confused by Tom Foster. Thedrunken boy talked of Helen White and said he hadbeen with her on the shore of a sea and had madelove to her. George had seen Helen White walkingin the street with her father during the evening anddecided that Tom was out of his head. A sentimentconcerning Helen White that lurked in his own heartflamed up and he became angry. "Now you quitthat," he said. "I won't let Helen White's name bedragged into this. I won't let that happen." Hebegan shaking Tom's shoulder, trying to make himunderstand. "You quit it," he said again.

For three hours the two young men, thus strangelythrown together, stayed in the printshop. When hehad a little recovered George took Tom for a walk.They went into the country and sat on a log nearthe edge of a wood. Something in the still nightdrew them together and when the drunken boy'shead began to clear they talked.

"It was good to be drunk," Tom Foster said. "Ittaught me something. I won't have to do it again. Iwill think more dearly after this. You see how it is."

George Willard did not see, but his anger concern-ing Helen White passed and he felt drawn towardthe pale, shaken boy as he had never before beendrawn toward anyone. With motherly solicitude, heinsisted that Tom get to his feet and walk about.Again they went back to the printshop and sat insilence in the darkness.